


Rope: Or, On Control and Lack Thereof

by FuneralMute (AnnabelLenore)



Series: A Den of Foxes [3]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: BDSM, M/M, Rope Bondage, Rope Suspension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 17:04:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9667310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnabelLenore/pseuds/FuneralMute
Summary: After a late night bet with Director Krennic, the Grand Moff finds himself at the end of his rope and at Orson's mercy.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I began writing this one-shot back in July after I went to my very first rope bite. This piece was meant to be apart of this series all long, though I never had the gumption to finally complete it until now. 
> 
> This is my official contribution to Day 5 prompt for [A Very Imperial Valentines](https://averyimperialvalentines.tumblr.com/prompt_list) on Tumblr: "Who's in command here?"

“Are you _sure_ you’re up to this?” Orson asked one more time in a teasing tone, one hand comfortably resting on his hip, the other holding a bundle of black hemp rope. He was dressed in a pair of black trousers and white tank top, a smirk gracing his lips.

Wilhuff narrowed his gaze and quirked a brow, arms crossed over his bare chest. “For the final time, _yes_.”

Krennic shrugged and began unraveling the length of rope. A series of suspension rings hung from the durasteel rafters over Tarkin’s head and he glanced up at them momentarily as he waited. The man was very well versed as a rope top, but this was the first time the position had been switched. This situation had just begun as a simple mental exercise, an idea jostled about one evening. This mere idea, however, soon turned into a **bet** which he was not ready or willing to lose.

Orson circled around him once before standing behind him, one hand placed on the other’s shoulder. He placed a light kiss on his neck and traced a finger along the border of his narrow shoulders, that smirk still stuck on his face. Wilhuff scowled, but continued to wait patiently.

The director pulled the governor’s arms behind his back and the first section of rope was wrapped around his wrists. Krennic was slow in his actions with the rope itself, wanting to drag this out for as long as he could so that the other man could know _intimately_ what it was like to be bound. After a series of too long moments of Orson slinking rope around him, his breath terribly hot against the other’s bare skin, he seemed pleased with what he had created.

Krennic took a couple steps back. “Everything feel alright? Nothing too tight?”

“Yes, yes, everything is fine.” He snapped and gave a dismissive toss of his head.

Orson picked up another nearby bundle of rope and began to fasten it to chest harness he had previously created before tying it off on a ring. More lengths of rope were brought over and attached. With a pull of one of the lines, Wilhuff’s feet left the floor. Orson watched with pleasure as those icy eyes grew wide and lowered their gaze to the floor. He hoisted him up a little higher before stepping back.

Tarkin blinked a few times and let out a long held breath. This was nothing, really, he assured himself, just a little _jarring_ that was all.

Orson then began the work of tying off his limbs and then fastening further lengths above his head. Wilhuff swallowed hard, lips pressed to a thin line, but he could not help the low moan that rose from his throat as one of his legs was hoisted up.

Once he was fully suspended, Orson left him to simply hang for a while, allow him to get used to what he had gotten himself into.

All though he was not very far up, the floor still seemed far away and moving even farther as his head began to buzz. His breath began to quicken as well as his heartbeat. He closed his eyes tightly, concentrating on the sheer physical sensation of each knot and length of rope that criss-crossed over his body, the way the material dug into his flesh. Such a mental exercise gave him some sense of calm and security in such a _vulnerable_ situation; concentrating on the wholly tactical had always allowed him a pleasant headspace of clarity and assurance. Krennic yanked on one of the lengths of rope, hoisting the other man even higher off the ground. The feeling of rope responding caused his eyes to involuntarily open. His stomach dropped and he let out an involuntarily loud moan.  

He knew exactly what to look and feel for in order to prevent injury. He knew the exact makeup of the rope and how much tension it could withstand. He knew the safe word and the guidelines and all the other essential information for a scene, but all of that purely intellectual knowledge escaped him when overcome with pure basic, primal sensation and emotion and were no longer of any help.

Wilhuff knew very well what it felt like to experience vulnerability, it was one of the many lessons he learned in The Carrion, and he strove his damnest to maintain order, power, and control in all facets of his life. And he did very well of it. If not, how could he have come so far? He knew that Krennic wouldn't be _wholly_ apt to make some stupid, debilitating blunder, that he knew exactly what he was doing as much as he did, but he could not help the racing survey of every tiny facet of the scene and the hypothesizes of what could go both wrong and right. The fact that his well being was almost completely in the hands of another was a major part of what so unnerved him.

The director gave the rigging a playful or perhaps sadistic push, causing Wilhuff to sway from one side to another like a human pendulum. With each motion, his perspective of the situation moved as well. _Left: panic. whatifwhatifwhatif, Center: tactical. wholly tactical, Right: the transcendent euphoria that comes with suspension_. And back again.

Krennic took note of the various changes in expression in the others face, and all his pure delight at the situation was clouded for a minute by a feeling of concern. Reason quickly set in however: Tarkin was a smart enough man with enough sense to call this off if something was wrong. Perhaps he was just caught up in the moment; every rope bottom, especially first timers, responded differently after all.  

He pulled on the rope more so that now Wilhuff was hanging at about his chest height. He gave the rope another quick, hard tug for good measure. The other man could not hold back another vocalization, but still his eyes stayed closed. Orson took his chin firmly in his grasp and forced his head up. "Open your eyes and _look at me_." With a flicker of lashes, Wilhuff slowly opened his eyes half way and looked at the director with an expression of pleasure and disdain.

“Very good, my love.” Krennic cooed. He held his gaze for a long moment before letting him go. With sauntering gait, he walked out of Wilhuff’s field of vision. Not even the sound of footsteps was heard for what felt like an eternity, and just as Tarkin’s heartbeat and breathing were becoming slow and steady, another line was pulled harshly.

He was learning quickly that this was certainly no time to let his guard down, but it seemed rather foolhardy to be so vigilant. His muscles were all pulled taught in anticipation, a dangerous state for a rope bottom to be in. With a deep breath, he slowly, though with marked hesitation, began to let himself relax. Orson had begun adjusting some of the ropes and with a pull of one of the lines he found himself hanging upside down with a jolt. With another loud, long moan he finally gave up and gave into the exquisite pleasure.

Wilhuff did not know for how much longer the scene continued as he was hoisted up and down, his limbs adjusted this way and that – he was too caught up in the present moment to have any concept of past or future.

Once again suspended upside down, Krennic slowly began to lower him a final time. Wilhuff whimpered quietly, eyes closed as Orson cradled his head in his arm as he let him down, untying the lines.

Face down on the floor now, the harnesses on his torso and columns on his limbs were still in place. Each knot was undone with care, though the ropes were pulled from around his body with considerable brute force. He hissed over the sound of hemp against flesh.   

He groaned as the final length of rope was pulled harshly from around him, leaving another bright red streak against pale, battle-scared skin. He let himself several moments to collected himself, taking deep breaths and taking stock of how each part of his body now felt as Krennic looked on keenly nearby as he bundled the rope back up. The palms of both hands now flat on the floor, he moved to hoist himself up. A sharp pain shot through his right shoulder, causing a sharp intake of breath and another groan. He moved the rest of his weight to the other arm and finally got himself to an upright sitting position. He felt light-headed and disoriented and he closed his icy eyes and bowed his head. He looked about ready to fall over, and Orson dropped the rope for the moment to quickly move to steady the other man. Wilhuff leaned his forehead against the other's shoulder as the director wrapped his arms around him. He let out another groan.

"How are you feeling?" All he got in response was a grunt.

Krennic chuckled and gently rubbed Wilhuff’s back. “You did very well, love. _Exceptionally_ even.” He flashed a toothy smile although the other was unable to see it.

A large purple bruise was already blooming on his shoulder. Orson placed a gentle, lingering kiss to the area, resulting in a hiss from Wilhuff. "I don't know how that's supposed to be of any help." He snapped, though there was a bit of a slur to his words. "Something… _cold_ should be applied to the area. It… it constricts the blood vessels. H-helps alleviate swelling." 

“All right, all right.” Orson replied defensively, raising his hands and placed a quick kiss atop the other’s head before slowly standing up, making sure that Wilhuff wasn’t about to fall over without his support.

Krennic returned to the room a few moments later with an ice pack and a glass of water to find Tarkin still sitting upright, legs crossed, hands folded and head bowed. Orson took a seat on the floor next to him, setting the glass off to the side and placed the ice pack on the injured area. Wilhuff made a sound which was somewhere between a breathy hiss and a moan.

“Is that better?”

Wilhuff didn’t answer, not verbally at least. He leaned against Orson once more, resting his head against his shoulder, arms wrapped loosely around him. Orson wrapped his free arm around his partner. He continued to gently rub his back, placing kisses on his temple at intervals. For the moment, he would not press Wilhuff any further with questions; now was the time to let him decompress before they could properly review how the scene went.

The two sat quietly for nearly a quarter of an hour before Orson spoke. “Did you enjoy yourself?” He certainly had enjoyed seeing the cold, calculating Grand Moff in such a _compromising_ state. It felt like a small victory.

“It was…” Wilhuff swallowed. “It was certainly _something_.” He was still on the high that comes with suspension, though he was beginning to sink into a comfortable crash.

With sluggish moments, he sat up and leaned back enough so that he could make eye contact with Orson’s bright blue gaze. He did not say anything for a time before pale lips finally parted. “Thank you.” He offered breathily.

His thoughts were beginning to condense from that ethereal cloud. This was the first time he had truly let himself give into the will of another, and though he hesitated to admit it even silently to himself, he enjoyed that type of release. "I believe… I have… learned...a lesson out of all of this.”

Another little victory, and Orson did nothing to hide the wide smile that stretched across his face.  


End file.
